


Slow Drip

by StarvingForAttention



Series: If At First You Don't Succeed [3]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Sexual Assault, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27111748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarvingForAttention/pseuds/StarvingForAttention
Summary: Together with his friends, Wilson has made himself a cozy little life in the Constant. Well, as cozy as it can be while finding himself stuck in camp and constantly feeling like the weakest link of their little group. Still, all might have been well if not for the unintended side effects of a scientific experiment unearthing memories best left buried...
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: If At First You Don't Succeed [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647067
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62





	Slow Drip

Wilson stroked the stubble on his chin and read through the list he had just penned.

  * A bath with an in-built capacity for warming water. Or a shower. Something better than a barrel
  * Soap that doesn't smell of rancid seaweed and death
  * A bed. An honest-to-goodness actual bed with legs and pillows and blankets
  * An actual house to put the bed in
  * A moat. ~~Possibly with sharks~~ Not with sharks
  * A hot drink of some description. It doesn't have to taste like coffee or tea, but it ought to be palatable



He tapped his reed pen against his cheek. The problem with lists such as this one was that they inevitably reminded you of just how long you had been deprived of so many creature comforts. Take, for instance, a bed. When had he even _seen_ a bed last? It might have been a year. It might have been twenty.

No. Forget the past. It was better to think of his life as having begun when Willow had found him, mangled and broken but with a stubbornly beating heart, and made a great fire to shelter him from the darkness. He owed his current life to her and those who had joined their party afterwards. The least he could do was aid them any way he knew how.   
  
Back to the list, then. Most items required materials not found in their storage, or else they would result in such sweeping changes to their base that they would have to first discuss them at their campfire meetings. The soap was feasible. Wilson was in charge of a third of their botanical garden, and he had plenty of time to experiment with petals and perfumes. However, it seemed like it ought to be a package deal with improved bathing equipment. That only left...

"There are dead leaves in your hair."

He turned. Wendy was staring up at him with her unerringly unnerving eyes that reflected all sunlight that struck them.

He combed his fingers through his spikes and shed the red and yellow hangers-on. Perhaps he had made a mistake sitting right underneath the birchnut trees. "Are they gone?"

"Yes." Wendy kept staring in his direction without really looking at him. "The trees are dying." 

"They are only hibernating," said Wilson in his most reassuring tone. "They will be back once spring returns."

Wendy didn't appear particularly interested in this response. She stood there for a while longer before turning and walking towards the kitchen area, toying with her flower. 

After she had departed, Wilson made an addition to his list.

  * Sweets for the children. Both Wendy and Webber loved the ones the Pig King threw at us, and taffy is growing stale.



After a moment's consideration, he made another entry.

  * Toothbrushes; toothpaste



But first, a hot drink. He had heard rumours of coffee and tea alike, hushed whispers much like Willow's suggestions that there was another colony living somewhere beyond the ocean. They had already planned a sea excursion for the following spring, and as much as Wilson dreaded it, he dared to hope that new lands meant new resources. New resources meant new inventions meant... what?

They would cross that bridge when they came to it. In the meanwhile, a hot drink would mean a more comfortable life for everyone in their base. He stashed the list in his pocket and got up. He would begin to look into the matter as soon as his daily chores were done.

After eight seasons of survival and development, their base more resembled a small village than a camp. Even walking fast, it took Wilson five minutes to get from one outer wall to the other. Their farming experiment had been a success, as had their efforts at raising bees and more Glommers. There was much that still needed to be brought in from the outside, but worst come to worst, they could survive a season-long siege with what they had. In the face of all the preceding toil and hardship, it was practically a paradise.

A paradise he couldn't leave.

He swept his gaze across the sleeping area. Three of the tents needed mending. No problem. Webber had only just shaven the day before, and the last time Wilson had checked, they had plenty of rope in stock. He felt confident marching over to the storage box.

Only, there was no rope. All five coils, gone.

No matter. He'd make some. They were sure to have...

Absolutely no grass.

Wilson stared at the barren chest, then made a sweep across its bottom with his hand on the off chance he was hallucinating again. Nothing. Even though there had been thirty-six tufts the day before.

 _Why_ someone had thought it a good idea to take such a vast amount of resources without informing the others was a question that would have to wait until later. For the time being the question was how was he going to replace them?

Some grass grew in the base, right next to the field of twig trees and emergency firewood. Only, he had just culled them two days ago. Nothing but scraggly stumps remained.

He held his chin up as he marched towards the southern gate, refusing to give into the chill that began at the pit of his stomach and radiated everywhere from there. 

The nearest grass grew a mere twenty yards from the stone wall. There was more than enough of it for his purposes between where he stood and the range of trees which marked the entrance to the woods.

He grabbed the spear left leaning against the wall for such occasions, just in case. He then froze.

He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. _It's all in your mind. What grown man cannot walk across a meadow to pick up some grass? The same meadow the children skip across every morning? It will only take a minute. And perhaps this time..._

He smothered the thought and stepped forward. Better to not think at all. Focus on the task at hand. One step. Another. Just stride towards the nearest tuft of grass and—

The ground tilted.

Wilson's knees smashed against the dirt. The spear slid from his hand the moment after, but that barely registered: the tremendous buzzing invading his skull drowned out everything else. It poured in through his mouth, through his ears and nostrils, even through his eyes, filling him to the brim with furious droning that roiled his stomach and made it impossible to move, impossible to _think..._

Almost impossible to think. As his eyesight failed him, Wilson was acutely aware that a part of his mind was reaching out for grasp something long gone, wiped out by either time or or his mind itself. Not that it felt important. All that mattered was the profound _wrongness_ of the ground under him, the way in which the good honest soil had been replaced in equal measures by quicksand and marshland.

It felt rock solid when he collapsed onto it. He breathed, desperate to keep his lungs working, fighting to overcome the dizziness that began right between his eyes and travelled through in his body and left his muscles with the consistency of watery gruel.

 _Get up, Wilson._ He gritted his teeth, but that spurred no actual movement. _Get up, Wilson Percival Higgsbury, you worthless excuse of a scientist. You have no reason to collapse just because you are no longer within the walls. Get up!_

He pushed his upper body away from the ground. He breathed in through his nose and imagined a torch in his mind. He waved it at the encroaching darkness. It helped a little, but his arms still shook and he still couldn't—

"Hark, Wilsön! I have returned."

Wilson opened his eyes to greet a familiar pair of feet enclosed in leather wrappings and the butt of a battle spear. 

Without further warning, Wigfrid crouched down. She scooped Wilson up and propped him against her shoulder like he was little more than a ragdoll. She began dragging him back towards the base.

The swaying eased enough for Wilson to remember why he had attempted the venture in the first place. "Wait! The grass!"

"Grass?" Wigfrid turned around. She walked over to the nearest tuft and ripped it out. "Is that enöugh?"

"I need eight more."

Wigfrid stomped around the meadow and collected the grass, holding onto Wilson all the while like he was a sack of potatoes. Wilson was about to suggest she could make her work easier by just leaving him on the ground, but by then she was already done. "Let us gö."

He meekly went along and didn't protest when Wigfrid dropped him and the grass down onto the wood-panelled floor by the entrance. Instead, he concentrated on breathing. Slowly, the ground stopped swaying. 

He leaned against the wall and got up, only to discover Wigfrid was still there, looking at him. 

"Thanks." Any smile would have looked forced, so he didn't bother. "I didn't mean to burden you."

Wigfrid shrugged. "We are all warriörs in öur öwn ways." 

Without further ado, she rushed into the pantry, shoved an undisclosed amount of meat into the nearest ice box, then rushed back into the wilderness.

Wilson gathered the discarded grass, trying his best not to feel absolutely useless.

* * *

Once the tents were repaired and the evening meal was simmering in the crock pots, Wilson made his way to Wickerbottom's library. Or rather, what they called a library, but what was in reality simply another tent, lined with books and papyrus scrolls. There was no bedding, only a chair. Wilson plunked himself down with the thickest volume on botany he could find. Better to narrow his drink research down to non-toxic plants to begin with.

Wickerbottom was nothing if not thorough. Even the most incomplete entries featured an illustration of the leaves of the plant in question, often accompanied by a dried sample of the real deal. Many were conveniently labelled non-toxic. 

He flipped the page. "Mentae..." He had never tried peppermint infusion himself, but that was a done thing, wasn't it? Not that peppermint was likely to grow in the Constant, but even so...

He scanned the following four pages with growing curiosity. All four mints listed were labelled non-toxic, though they lacked all but the most basic information. One, dubbed _Mentha recollectica_ , he recognised by sight, but he took the book with him as he ventured into the botanical garden for samples. Better safe than sorry.

* * *

Two hours and only one rose prick related mishap later, the results of the taste test were complete. 

_Mentha aberca_ was a no-go, so bitter it puckered Wilson's lips before the infusion even touched them. _Mentha flava_ was better, perfectly drinkable, but it left behind such a repulsive aftertaste that Wilson would have just barely forced it upon his worst enemy. _Mentha dulcissima_ would be a hit among the children, and a flavor he might well incorporate into the boiled sweets he intended to craft later. However, it wasn't exactly suited for a more refined adult palate.

Overall, _Mentha recollectica_ was the clear winner. It too was sweet, but with a lingering bitterness that kept it from being saccharine. Wilson downed the entire cup and was halfway through his second one, congratulating himself on the discovery, when he decided to double-check the plant's entry. There was nothing there but the picture and the dried leaf: even Wickerbottom's note declaring the mint non-toxic was followed by a question mark.

As much as the librarian hated when others added notes to her books, Wilson couldn't help himself. He compromised by leaving the actual book untouched and instead wedged a piece of papyrus between the pages.

_Tastes great when infused in water. Report on toxicity pending, but it seems safe enough._

* * *

Nothing of note happened in the early afternoon. Wilson harvested the bee boxes and stored the honey away for a rainy day. He checked the drying racks. After a moment's consideration, he ventured towards the walled-off ponds. It had been a while since they had eaten froggie bunwiches.

The ponds were one of the few places within the base where trees still dominated the landscape. They had tried keeping a small wooded area for easy firewood, once, in the section of the base now dubbed Treeguard's Hovel. Since then, they had made the unanimous decision to only grow birchnuts and concentrate their in-base logging operations to winter.

Wilson hummed as he checked the traps. Yes, yes, legs aplenty. They would have a feast the following night. 

He reset the final trap, then leaned against the nearest birchnut tree, suddenly out of breath. How odd. It wasn't as though he had overexerted himself. The bark felt scraggly against his fingertips. Had it always been like that? He hadn't really—

_The bark tore into the still bleeding gashes on his back, shredding flesh and skin alike each time he struggled. He struggled regardless, fighting against the invisible bonds that kept him tied spread eagle against the tree trunk, watching hypnotised as his guts were ripped from his still living body, glistening and so very long, like bright tinsel tied to a maypole_

The overpowering scent of dirt filled his nostrils. It took him a moment to realise it was because he was lying face-first in mulch.

He got up and found himself shaking. Pain still ghosted all over his torso. It was so real he unbuttoned his waistcoat and tucked out his shirt to ensure his guts were still in place. He was greeted by smooth, pale skin, marred only by a single scar from his run-in with Deerclops the winter prior.

He shook his head. What was that? Some ancient death which had resurfaced from the recesses of his mind? Perhaps sometimes ignorance was bliss after all.

He dusted himself off and returned to work.

* * *

He was halfway done with the daily crops, pulling out the last of the carrots when _it was the greatest insult of all, using fruits of his own labour to trap him._

His eyes darted around, blinking away cold sweat. There was nothing there but a lone crow pecking at the ground. If something was waiting in ambush behind the berry bushes, it was doing a brilliant job staying still and invisible. Still, the sensation of an interloper lingered.

He waited in vain for his skin to stop crawling. Finally, he crouched to pluck the tomatoes and _the skin of his wrists was already rubbed raw, like the hardiness he had gained over the weeks meant nothing_ got back up, spooked, to see the same crow and empty fields and silence. He peeled back his gloves to reveal unharmed wrists _which he couldn't move an inch — they were too securely bound to his ankles with two more lengths of rope_ but still aching with ghostly pain _and two more securing the log wedged sideways between his thighs, which made every moment spent upright a struggle, sapping his strength_ he stood up, legs trembling like he hadn't eaten in days, leaving the produce where it had scattered on the ground and _he was yanked down to his knees by his hair, why did it always have to be his hair_ and half stumbled, half crawled to the lean-to, eyes wide open in hopes it would keep him from seeing _that infernal grin._

He buried his head in the crook of his arms and rode the storm of nausea. After what must have been at least a quarter of an hour, it abated enough to let him think.

There were two options. He was either once again going insane — unsurprising but vexing considering how well he had maintained his sanity over the past several seasons — or he was recalling long since suppressed memories, all misery and pain. But then, why would he so clearly sense what he had back then, even in a diluted form? 

Three options. He had once again stumbled onto something not yet explained by modern science. Something seemingly magical, a trap of some kind, or a poison...

He raised his head. He had ingested three foreign things that day. Three more than was safe. 

Groaning, he turned to his back, feeling a little more like himself again. It was too late for an emetic: whatever poison had been in those mints was already circulating in his bloodstream. The best he could do was to speak to his friends when they got home, take some powdered charcoal, and hope to sleep it through. He had survived poisonous mushrooms and strikes nearly slashing his torso in half. Some half-baked memories of _an all-consuming pain as his eye was torn from its socket_ weren't going to get him.

* * *

After supper, during which it had been revealed Willow had taken the rope to replace her fighting gear (though what she had wanted with the thirty-six tufts of grass remained unclear), Wilson approached Wickerbottom.

"Hmm..." After he fell silent, she left for the library and returned with the botany tome. She leafed through it with a critical eye. "Which mints did you use?"

"All of them."

"I have suspected that _Mentha recollectica_ may have some hallucinogenic qualities in addition to memory-enhancing ones." Wickerbottom's already creased brow furrowed further. "However, what you describe is an extreme reaction. How much of it did you consume?"

"Five or six leaves altogether." Wilson gave her a wan smile. "I'll survive. I just thought I would let you know in case it helps your research."

"I appreciate it." She gave him the acknowledging nod of one natural scientist to another. "I will investigate the plants further."

"Thank you." Wilson was about to turn away and hit the hay when a small, fuzzy hand tugged at the hem of his waistcoat. 

"Wilson?" Webber was staring up at him with pleading in his eyes. "Can you tell us a bedtime story?"

Wilson smiled at Webber. "I thought it was Willow's turn tonight."

"Her story is too scary!" Webber's grimace revealed all of his fangs. "The princess set the entire forest on fire!"

Wilson tried not to laugh. The poor boy was well within his rights to fear fire. "How about I tell you a story about the history of the waterwheel?"

"Okay!" Webber let go and rushed towards the tents. "Come tell it now!"

Wilson nodded at Wickerbottom. "Good night."

"Safe dreams," she said with the steadiness of someone who hadn't dreamed in decades and returned to the book.

* * *

  
"I don't think you're even trying, pal."

Wilson glared. Well, tried to glare. His eyes were encrusted shut with dirt and rheum, and even if they hadn't been, his face was flat against the frozen ground.

"I mean really now. Haven't we been here before?"

Yes, he had been ensnared before. Mostly by pigmen, whose traps were made of wood and ropes and natural hazards. This one was not, and so it had to be Maxwell's trap, specifically devised to put an end to Wilson's forty-eighth attempt to survive in this terrible world.

Why? Because the demon was bored, no doubt.

He scratched at the dirt and tried to peel his eyes open. There was little chance of escape: he was as weak as a kitten from hunger and exposure. Even if he were stronger, his ankle was securely trapped between metallic jaws, with finger-long prongs biting deep into the flesh, reaching bone. The only way out was gnawing his leg off. Or death.

"I know you can hear me." There was a spike of irritation in Maxwell's voice. He crouched down next to Wilson, those spindly spider-like limbs bending till Wilson could feel his breath against his forehead. "Don't you have anything to say for yourself, pal?"

With great effort, Wilson managed to get his left eye open. He could just about see Maxwell's knee above the ground. "Go to Hell, Maxwell."

Maxwell chuckled. It wasn't a humorous laugh. "Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it."

Wilson groaned. "Just snap my neck and be done with it."

"Surely you don't despise the liberal arts _that_ much?"

Wilson didn't bother responding. This was the fourth time Maxwell had directly contributed to his demise, and based on the previous three times nothing good awaited Wilson between now and death.

_What will it be today? Breaking my bones? Crushing my windpipe? Just some plain old taunting to remind me of what I've lost? Do your worst, Maxwell. Sticks and stones, sticks and stones._

Only, Maxwell did nothing at first. Very slowly, he reached down to touch Wilson's hair. He curled several strands around his fingers into it before giving them a sudden tug. Wilson hissed.

_Is he going to scalp me?_

Maxwell let go as if suddenly discovering something revolting clinging to his hand. He glared at Wilson.

Wilson glared back. At least the tears the tug had coaxed out of him had helped clear his eyes.

"Is that all?" Maxwell's voice was colder than the dead of winter.

The next moment, Maxwell's hand was back in Wilson's hair, pulling him up by the roots. Even gritting his teeth, Wilson couldn't hold the gasp of agony as Maxwell raised his head level with his own.

He force his eyes back open. Maxwell's black eyes stared at him, unblinking. Starless skies, full of terrors.

And then, without any further preamble, Maxwell leaned forth and captured Wilson's mouth with his own.

Wilson's entire body jerked with shock, jostling his trapped leg. The shooting pains jolted him back to wakefulness, back to a reality he had instinctively rejected. 

His blood turned to ice.

Maxwell deepened the kiss.

Reason fled Wilson. He had to get away at once. But how? His hands were trapped holding him upright so that his hair wouldn't tear off his head, and his protests were muffled by Maxwell's tongue. 

Still, he tried. He cursed. He struggled. He pulled his head from one side to another as though violently shaking his head.

Maxwell was entirely unstymied by these objections. If anything, they spurred him on until he was practically devouring Wilson's face.

Just as Wilson thought that, Maxwell's teeth sank in. Hard.

A blood red darkness fell.

Cries rose to garbled screaming, suffocated before they could escape into the evening air. Wilson's entire world compressed to his mouth and the nail-sharp teeth mauling the soft flesh inside of it, sure to tear it apart, sure to bite off his tongue, but even that was fine as long as it would stop stop stop **STOP**

As abruptly as it had come, the worst of the pain was gone. Distantly, Wilson realised he was back on the ground, drooling blood. Even the suffocating stench of iron couldn't mask the bile rising up.

Maxwell looked on with unreadable eyes as Wilson expelled what little was left in his stomach, and then kept going.

Eventually, after at least a full minute of dry heaving with nothing but a few dribbles of bloodied spit to show for it, his stomach finally settled down. Wilson collapsed, drained beyond measure.

His hair landed in his sick. Because of course it did. At least Maxwell would keep his hands away from it now.

"That's enough fun for one night, pal." Maxwell touched his shoulder. Lightly, only with his fingertips. He sounded amused and more than a little disgusted. 

Wilson wanted to recoil from the touch. All he managed was a slight nudge, like a clockwork toy on its last legs. He stared ahead, trying not to think of the icy gulf that had opened within him.

"I bet you a gramophone that you thought things couldn't possibly get any worse." This time, disgust dominated Maxwell's face. "You always did lack imagination, Wilson."

Wilson made no response. At least, he made no response beyond a desperate gurgling noise.

His mind still worked, chugging frantically through the haze of agony as his mouth once again filled with blood. Only, it seemed incapable of coming up with something useful, like an escape plan or even the means to kill himself before Maxwell made things worse.

It was such an irrational thing to fixate upon, a mere footnote in the book of pain still rippling across his jaw. Maxwell had kissed him. And for a few flickers, it hadn't felt fuelled by hatred. It had felt fuelled by a possessive hunger.

He looked on blearily, unsure what to think and too exhausted to care, as Maxwell stood up. His customary smirk was nowhere in sight.

"You've been slacking off, pal. Acting like everything that happens here is irrelevant to you." Maxwell brushed an imaginary piece of lint off his suit. "Don't make me regret choosing you."

 _That is precisely what I intend to do the first chance I get._ But the words wouldn't come out. The cold which had spread through him no longer felt like a state but like permanent fixture of his being.

Maxwell appeared to read his response from his gaze regardless. His mouth twisted. "That's more like it. It's obvious by now that no carrot alone will work. You need the stick. And I'm happy to provide one."

He turned his back to Wilson. "I will give you a deadline. If by the hundredth life you still haven't reached the exit..." He made a theatrical shrug. "Well, pal. If you didn't like today, you're going to like then even less. Far, far less."

Even without seeing them, Wilson could feel the fangs on his neck. 

Maxwell laughed abruptly, sounding more like his hounds than himself. "You know, I think I almost look forward to it." He gave a mocking wave. "Try harder next time."

The shadow blade which chopped Wilson's head off made no sound.

* * *

Wilson jolted awake, hand flying to his neck. It was all there. Still attached to his head, to boot.

Slowly, he recognized the walls of his tent and the pitch blackness outside. 

He didn't fall asleep again that night.

* * *

At dawn, he stood by the southern gate and wished everyone good luck as they ventured outside. He made sure he had plenty of wood stocked by each fire pit. He collected berries from their gardens, and lured the gobblers he spooked from the bushes into their doom. He made himself lunch. He picked the vegetables he hadn't the day before. He reinforced the stone walls where they threatened to collapse.

Most importantly, he refused to pay attention to the flashes of trauma that plagued him from dawn till the time he began to cook dinner.

The past is the past, he decided, focusing his attention on the crock pots. The memories were mere hallucinations, no different from what he had experienced when he had accidentally overdosed on greencaps the spring prior. He couldn't even be sure they were real. There was no reason to fear _it was always there, the fear. Maxwell didn't always hurt him, he didn't even always touch him, but there was always that look, hungry and knowing, previously veiled but now so naked the demon might as well have been smacking his lips, the certainty that whenever slipped he might_

"They are back."

Wilson banged his knee against the pot in his haste to turn around. It was Wendy, clutching onto a length of rope.

Wilson looked around. "The hounds?" He hadn't heard their baying. 

Wendy shook her head and pointed at his hair. At length, he realised she meant leaves. 

He combed his fingers through his hair and shed them. "That's odd. I didn't go near the trees."

Wendy looked on. Once he was satisfied he had gotten them all and let his hands fall, she spoke again. 

"You will die if you don't lie down."

"What?" It wasn't a threat, probably. Knowing Wendy, it was likely a wish.

"You look like a ghost." Spoken with the certainty of someone who knew her ghosts.

Wilson tried to smile. Didn't he always look like one? The bags under his eyes had been permanent since before he had entered his teens, and not even scorching summer sun gave his skin _he had never thought twice about exposing his skin, not after his habitual modesty had given way to the needs of survival. But he still had his dignity, and the knowledge there were leering eyes watching_ the slightest hint of pigment. 

He blinked as if he had just stared into that very scorching summer sun. He turned his attention to Wendy. "Would you like some taffy?"

Wendy shook her head and walked away. Wilson returned to the crockery, pretending not to feel the burning ice which had taken residence in his veins.

* * *

By the time of the campfire meet-up, Wilson hadn't seen broken limbs or trampled organs for nearly an hour.

He leaned back and watched Willow stoke the flames with a barely contained manic gleam in her eyes. Wigfrid claimed first possession of the Speaker's Staff, a stake with a grinning Merm skull.

"The göds have blessed us töday." With a great flourish, she tossed two sets of gears on the ground before their eyes and struck a triumphant pose. "The mechanichal föes by the eastern swamp are nö möre!"

Webber gave a cheerful squeal, followed by polite clapping from Wickerbottom. Wilson sunk further down against the log. Happy voices to the crackling of fire were his favourite lullaby.

Webber leaned forward to claim the staff. In the firelight, his arachnid countenance entirely belied the kind-hearted boy underneath. Funny what you could get used to with time.

_"You just never learn, pal."_

Wilson's nose felt stuffy. He sniffled. The sensation only got worse.

"We found a toy crocodile in the water!" Webber held the still soggy toy to all to see with reverence more fitting for the key to the lost mines of Solomon. He turned to smile at Wendy. "We can play together! I'll share!"

Wendy eyed the toy without much enthusiasm, but she said nothing to deflate Webber's joy.

Wilson brought his hand to his nose. It returned stained red.

Wendy stretched out her hand. Webber placed the staff in it without murmur, then sat back down to caress the toy.

"The ghosts tell me there is another hole underground hidden beyond the sea. They say _it was the greatest insult of all, using fruits of his own labour to trap him. The ropes burned through his threadbare garments, constricting him in an awkward kneeling position. All he could move was his head, and that too was seized as Maxwell grabbed him by the hair and tore at it till he looked up to that infernal grin as Maxwell forced his gloved fingers into his mouth and_

Wilson only realised he had sprung to his feet when he felt the stares on him up at him. The expressions on his friends' faces were only mildly surprised: they were all a little mad in the Constant, and a dab of eccentricity was the norm rather than the exception. But they were concerned.

"Yöu haven't said anything yet, Wilsön." Wigfrid nudged her head in Wendy's direction in hopes of receiving the staff.

Wilson brought the back of his hand to his still bleeding nose in hopes of stifling the flow."I- I thought of a recipe for mint candy." His eyes darted in the direction of the tents. "I need to go lie down."

"In a fascinating coincidence, I too studied herbs today." Wickerbottom's tone was level even though she spoke without the staff, which was her invention in the first place. "I have delineated several—"

The ground beneath Wilson's feet vanished.

* * *

"Why can't you do _anything_ right?"

Even as the smoke sapped the last of Wilson's strength, he couldn't help but be curious. All this time, he had wondered exactly what Maxwell _wanted_ from him.

Only, there were no further clues. The demon ranted and raved amidst the still smoldering ashes, but it all sounded like the droning of insects. Or maybe a gramophone playing an empty track. It had been so long since Wilson had heard one that he couldn't be sure.

 _What am I supposed to do?_ The vocalization of the thought came out as a miserable croak, but his mind, trapped and weakening though it was, kept guessing, kept wondering, kept _thinking._

_What is it that you want, Maxwell?_

Before he knew it, he was aloft, picked up by his collar and left dangling in the air. Belatedly, he felt the shadow hands supporting his weight, preventing him just barely from choking and keeping him facing the full blast of madness roaring in Maxwell's eyes.

Wilson met the insanity with a tired look of it own. _Well? What do you want?_

"How many opportunities have I already given you?"

Wilson's lids began to shudder shut. _Fewer than you think, you maniac. You could ask. You could explain. You could stop hurting me and give me a reason to care._

"A hundred attempts," Maxwell continued when Wilson said nothing, sounding as outraged as if Wilson had stabbed him in the kidneys. "One hundred lives. With no hindrance from me for the bulk of them. Several thousand days, and what do you have to show for it?"

With Herculean effort, Wilson forced his eyes back open. There had been something beyond rage and frustration and hatred etched on Maxwell's face. What was it?

He narrowed his gaze and focused. There it was. Now, what was that feeling called, that strange curve of the eyebrow with the laboured breath and fathomless eyes?

_Despair._

"What..." The word was beyond strained. Wilson doubted Maxwell even heard him. "What... do you... want?"

Within seconds, he was back on the ground, with Maxwell aiming a sharp kick to his ribs.

"Obviously it's nothing you can provide, you worthless excuse of a scientist." Maxwell was hissing, really hissing. Any moment now he was going to turn into a literal snake.

Slowly, he grew quiet. Only, his rage hadn't subsided. Wilson knew the signs. The eerie quiet. The malevolent aura. The atmosphere of what he now recognized as quiet desperation.

"I gave you a deadline."

Wilson closed his eyes. What deadline? It was possible that Maxwell had given him one, but each death tore another hole into his memory.  
  
Hands were on him again, rough and uncaring. He found his face pushed against the ground, crushing his nose and mouth into the dirt, turning the already tricky task of breathing into a desperate struggle which took all of his remaining energy. 

"At this point, this is all you're good for."

He knew what was going to happen. He had known even before his remaining clothes were torn from him, before the sharp fingers broke the skin over his hips. He had seen nightmares about it for years, had struggled to delay it for what felt like a small eternity in the face of constant escalation. 

He struggled even now as the weight settled against his back, tried to cry out, tried to tell Maxwell to _stop._

He didn't stop.

It was, in retrospect, not the worst physical pain Wilson had ever been in. In the top five, perhaps, once something within him was stretched beyond breaking point and _ripped_ , like the claws were everywhere inside him where nothing should have been and shredding him from within. The nausea was almost worse, stretching out what must have only been ten minutes into an eternity of misery. But it wasn't the worst. It didn't even kill him.

He only wished it had.

* * *

It took Wilson several moments to understand the desperate groans ringing in his ears were coming from him.

He jolted upright, and immediately regretted it: phantom pain throbbed through every inch of his of body. Blinking away tears he didn't remember shedding, he looked around. He was back in his own tent. Someone had loosened his collar for him and draped a blanket across his legs.

He sunk back down as his muscles seized up, feeling like someone had scooped up his innards and left him a husk.

Only then did he notice someone sitting in the corner of the tent. Instinctively, he pulled back, so violently the entire tent shook. 

Wickerbottom ignored his outburst and continued to write into the manuscript on her lap as though nothing had happened. Distantly, Wilson recognised it as the very plant encyclopedia he had utilised the day before.

He took a deep breath, ignoring the shadows dancing on the walls of his tent. With painstaking effort, he sat upright once more. His elbow struck something hard. Looking down, he saw the crocodile and a bouquet of red flowers.

"The children brought those." Wickerbottom kept writing as she spoke. "Wendy assumed you were dead."

Wilson smiled a little in spite of himself. The smile wilted faster than birchnuts at the beginning of winter. "What happened?"

"Your screams attracted several shadow beasts to the campsite. We vanquished them and brought you here." Wickerbottom put her pen down. "Now then. Regarding _Mentha recollectica_."

Wilson lay down and gave the ceiling a bleary look. "Yes. _Mentha recollectica_."

Wickerbottom cleared her throat. "Consumed by itself, _Mentha recollectica_ is entirely harmless. It is nothing but a simple herb which aids with retention and especially the retrieval of memories. I have verified its cognition-boosting qualities, but it is rather a tonic than a miracle cure for memory loss. The problem only arises when it is confused with another herb."

Wilson frowned as Wickerbottom walked over to the cot and flipped the book to an entirely different section. The leaf attached to the page was nigh identical to the mint leaves he had gathered. The edges were a sliver more serrated, but that was it.

" _Urticaria terricula_. Highly toxic. Induces nightmares and thinning of blood, among other effects. The poison clings to the cells and remains in the body for years at a time."

Wilson could have strangled himself. "I only tasted mint in the cup."

"Which brings me to my hypothesis." Wickerbottom shut the book with the tender care of a lifelong librarian. "I assume you ingested both the nettle and the mint in conjunction with one another. It appears this ecarberated the effects of both to a significant degree."

Winter fell within Wilson. It wasn't scientific as he knew it, exactly, but it was scientific enough for the Constant. "In other words..."

"You have repressed a significant portion of your memory." It wasn't a question. "From what came out of your mouth while you were under the poison's influence, I assume the combined effect of the two herbs will continue to force you to relive those past experiences which you have sought to forget."

Wilson's dread was joined by mortification. "What did I say, exactly?"

"Nothing that bears repeating." Wickerbottom must have seen the horror dawning on Wilson's face, as she showed him mercy. "Wigfrid herded the children away as soon as it began. They heard nothing untoward."

Wilson buried his face in his hands. A thin silver lining in an ocean of black clouds.

"I am afraid I have no other good news. As I said before, the poison lingers years to come." Wickerbottom's small eyes were cold, but not without pity. "It may well be you must re-live each and every one of your suppressed memories."

* * *

After half an hour alone, which he had mostly spent swallowing back the screams tearing at his throat, Wilson turned to his side and tried to rest. The pain of the memory had faded. The shame of it found a permanent home in his breast.

It took him a moment to notice Willow had entered the tent. Without hesitation, she sat down next to him and plopped Bernie into the creek of his arm.

"Wickerbottom told me what you did," she said.

Wilson sighed and stared at the teddy bear.

"It's okay. I know what it's like having nightmares about the past."

That got Wilson thinking. He had been so focused on his own misery he hadn't even considered what his friends might have gone through. "...What sort of nightmares?"

Willow tilted her head. "Mostly they're from before here, really. But there was this one time I got lost on the ice with no fuel for my lighter." She shuddered as though she felt the same cold now she had back then. "That still comes back to me."

Wilson nodded. Could he dare hope that was the worst of Willow's experiences? "I guess you remember more than I do."

"Oh, I remember it all." The familiar manic gleam returned to Willow's eyes. "It wasn't that long ago."

"Oh."

"You know." Willow reached forward to stroke Bernie's fuzzy head. "I think you've been here longer than all of us put together."

"What makes you think that?"

"Well." Willow leaned back and looked Wilson in the eye. "Back when we became friends, you were really weird. Kinda like you've been tonight. Don't you remember?"

Wilson could only laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. From the very start, he had never once doubted that of the two of them, he was the _sane_ one.

Willow's expression didn't budge an inch, not until Wilson's laughter subsided and he began to think. The timeline in his mind didn't really solidify until they time they had found Webber fleeing from the bearger. From there, the re-building of the base and the slow formation of their little tribe were as clear as a tale written in a book. What of before then?

"You got startled by birds and gusts of wind and woke up screaming at someone who wasn't there whenever you fell asleep." Willow shrugged. "I figured at first it was because of what you told me about the Nightmare Throne, but some of the things you said when you were freaking out didn't really add up to that, and there was so much of it. So I figured you'd been here for a really long time even before that."

Wilson stared down at Bernie. "Did I ever tell you anything about it?"

"Not much. You probably didn't remember it then, either." Willow took Bernie and set him more decisively against Wilson, his paws pushed against his stomach. "But I think you'll be fine even if you start remembering it. We'll look after you." Willow's smile was so warm it had to be authentic. "Besides, you already survived it once." 

Wilson looked at the person who was, for all her eccentricities and his own failings, his closest friend, and felt the unconditional support her smile promised him. Try as he might, he couldn't smile back.

* * *

The following morning, he said nothing when both Wickerbottom and Webber announced they were to stay behind in the base for the day.

"I intend to edit and compile some of the observations I have made of the unnatural world," explained Wickerbottom while pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

"And we're going to... play with our new toy!" Webber chimed in.

Wilson nodded dully, trying not to feel guilty. The nutjob watch, in other words. Two extra pairs of eyes — well, ten, since Webber was there — to make sure Wilson didn't have a flashback while lighting a fire and accidentally set the whole base ablaze. 

After all, he could hardly be allowed to steal Willow's thunder like that.

"Öur larders are well stöcked," Wigfrid annouced as she geared up to go. The wings of her helmet shone with gold in the early light. "We can rest at ease för days tö cöme."

In other words, just stay in the lean-to and relax, Wilson thought as she watched her vanish southwards after Willow and Wendy.

He felt he ought to have been more grateful. No doubt they were trying to set his mind at ease, prove that he would be provided for regardless of his contributions.

As though that didn't make him a millstone around their necks.

He strode over to their wardrobe and shoved the beekeeper's hat over his spikes. Idleness would only make things worse.

And, in the end, his morning was no different from any other. He harvested the honey, and used the crock pot furthest away from their ice boxes to make some more taffy. He fed their pet crow, and was reminded by its droppings to re-fertilise the berry bushes. He made fresh bandages and a new fishing pole to replace the soon to be ex-pole.

And if Wickerbottom looked up from her books more often than usual, and if Webber frequently paused his games to stare at him, and if _the claws sank into his flesh and he bit his lip bloody to keep himself from screaming, he wouldn't give him anything, wouldn't give him anything at all, he wouldn't he wouldn't_ , well, that was just what his life was going to be from now on, wasn't it? He had learned to cope with worse.

_You already survived it once._

It wasn't till he decided to check on the northern wall, the closest to the ancient graveyard, that the cold sweat returned. As always, the sight of that great wilderness, with the untold numbers of buried corpses serving as fertiliser to the piney trees made his knees buckle.

He leaned against the wall for support, trying to make it look like a choice to relax in case of on-lookers. 

All this time, he had worked endlessly to suppress the horrors of his past. He had so successful he could only guess at the wealth of memories he had lost.

_You already survived it once._

But had he? His body hadn't, obviously, but that wasn't how Willow had meant it in the first place. That didn't frighten him.

He gripped the stone hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Yes, his body had been broken. But was there any guarantee his mind hadn't been broken too? He might have well snapped somewhere down the line. He had no proof he hadn't fallen into despair, or, heaven forbid, submitted to Maxwell, become a willing participant in his own abuse. What would happen to his current grasp on sanity if its foundation turned out to be built upon quicksand?

_How many times did I die before I reached the Nightmare Throne?_

He looked over the garden wall. Between the trees, above the graves, lay hundreds upon hundreds of corpses. 

Hundreds upon hundreds of corpses, arranged haphazardly into a single line, with stiff limbs dangling on pierced, bloodless bodies. 

As Wilson turned, trembling, he saw the line of corpses continued beyond the walls. The entire base was surrounded by death.

He took a step closer to the nearest gate, then another, legs shaking like the last leaves of autumn but still carrying him. Within moment, he stood by the feet of the nearest corpse.

The body was instantly recognizable as Willow's. Her hair had escaped its bindings, half obscuring her face with its empty eyes and hollowed out cheeks. She was curled up, impossibly small and frail. Starvation.

He wanted to look away, he really did, but his eyes had ideas of their own. Wickerbottom, oddly peaceful. Webber, face contorted into a fearful death mask. Wendy, paler than ever with her face to the ground. Wigfrid, bloodied and beaten.

And himself. Over and over and over again. For each of the others, there seemed to be eight of him. Some were charred, some were wounded, stained with burns and dried blood. Some had gone blue, others a frightening lobster red, others were paler than snow. Some looked untouched, like their owner had simply slipped away in their sleep. Others were mutilated beyond recognition, pulped and ravaged and maimed in a hundred increasingly violent ways.

A kind of nervous laugh escaped him as he saw his deaths staring back at him. A hundred? No. Even a modest estimate brought him close to a thousand deaths. Deaths, and other things that weren't death.

Unable to tear his eyes away, his gaze clapped onto one corpse in particular, one lying near to his feet. This Wilson had been strangled, with the red red welts marring his neck. The real cause of death was likely the wound in his gut, vast and stained a blackish red, like someone had skewered him with a jousting lance. His eyes stared into the distant sun with a waxen look of disbelief.

Wilson laughed again. He kept laughing. Even when there was no breath left in him, he kept laughing.

When the shadows behind his eyes finally claimed him, it was almost a mercy.

* * *

Wilson was coming to hate the interior of his tent.

He lied back down and occupied himself by reciting decimals of pi in his head, doing his best to ignore the lingering stench of sick in the air. At length, he noticed his gloves were gone, and that both of his hands were dressed in the bandages he had made that day. They were tightly wound around his fingers so that he could still use them. He curled and uncurled his hands in wonderment.

By the time the others came to see him, he felt strong enough to greet them sitting up.

"Eat this tö regain strength," was all Wigfrid said, pushing a massive glazed ham into Wilson's arms before leaving the tent to make room for others.

"We brought you taffy," Webber said as he and Wendy stepped forth, handing Wilson the very treats he had made for them.

"Did the ghosts talk to you?" Wendy asked.

Wilson took the sweets. "I think they only speak to you."

Wendy accepted this possibility with a mute nod, then departed without another word. Webber looked about to say something else, then didn't. He scurried off after her.

Willow carried nothing but Bernie, but Wickerbottom had in her hands a steaming cup. She presented it to Wilson. "Drink."

Wilson set the food aside and took the cup. The fumes were bitter, like a piece of ginger root that had just gotten told its unpleasant cousin had won the lottery. He took a sip out of politeness. It tasted exactly as good as it smelled.

"Wendy found you," said Willow as he set the cup down. "You were weeping and clawing your fingers to the bone against the wall."

Wilson suppressed a groan. What was the point of mortification when he had already been at his lowest point? "Did I say anything?"

"Nothing in any known human tongue." Wickerbottom pushed her glasses up. "I believe it's time for us to discuss how we mean to proceed from here."

Wilson had reluctantly brought the cup back to his lips, enticed by the liquid's warmth more than anything else. He now set it down. "I agree."

The answer was as clear to him as a pond's surface on the first day of winter. If he couldn't function, and possibly could never function again, his mere presence would be a tremendous burden to the settlement. No doubt this was exactly what Willow and Wickerbottom had come to tell him. That they appreciated that he was trying, and that they had been willing to give him some concessions, it they couldn't put everyone else's lives at risk just for him. That it would be better if he struck out on his own and survived as he saw fit.

The conclusion to these thoughts, more bitter even than the contents of his cup, were interrupted when Wickerbottom cleared her throat. "I cannot guarantee a true antidote, but I believe the contents of that cup may ameliorate your symptoms. We can, at the very least, seek to decrease the intensity of your visions, and possibly their frequency as well."

Wilson opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked down into the dark golden swirls of the liquid. 

"We'll try different things," Willow said, all too cheerful for any discussion but one about next feast day. "Even if you can't forget again, we can at least make you feel better. And if it helps you to talk about it—" She shrugged. "I'm here."

Wickerbottom nodded. "It may be advisable that you avoid heavy lifting till the blackout episodes have ceased. In any case, we can discuss our plans more once you have rested." She didn't smile, exactly, but there was a degree less of severity between her brows. "Is something the matter?"

Wilson blinked rapidly. "No. This is very different conversation from what I was expecting. That's all." 

This time, Wickerbottom really did smile. "We are hardly likely to abandon family." 

She turned away before Wilson could even begin to think of a response. "Drink it all."

She glided out of the tent like a countess departing from a successful dinner party.

"There you have it." Willow sat down next to Wilson and pulled a face at the cup. "I gave it a taste while she was making it. Yuck. But I bet if you put a taffy in your mouth before taking a sip, it would taste just right."

Wilson found himself holding back tears. He tried to find suitable words of gratitude, only to draw a blank.

"Thank you," he finally said, with perfect sincerity. He carefully unwrapped one of the taffies.

Filtered through it, the medicine tasted almost like honeyed tea.


End file.
